Breakfast
by Canticle
Summary: Post-AOU. In the new Avengers Training Facility, Wanda Maximoff wakes up one morning (when there isn't early training) and decides she'd rather not eat stale cereal for breakfast. Maybe it's the smell of pancakes, maybe it's the noise she made knocking things over in the cabinets - but somehow, she ends up with company... (My usual rating: T for past violence and peril.)


Wanda Maximoff was the first Avenger awake that morning. Or at any rate, the first one who'd admit to being awake by leaving their room. Someone – probably not Romanov – had given them "Christmas break" off from morning training, and everyone seemed determined to enjoy it to the last possible minute.

So it was at a gray-rainy nine o'clock in the morning, two days before Christmas, that Wanda closed the door of her room behind her softly and set off for the kitchen downstairs. The floor tiles were cold under her bare feet, and the quiet in the halls of the Avengers Training Center could almost be felt. Nobody talking, nobody shouting, nobody running, no one's cell phone ringing or computer blaring sounds. No need to be anywhere or do anything – at least not at the moment. Wanda liked that; she could do whatever she liked, up to and including going down to the kitchen to put together breakfast, and nobody would come along and sweep her up in a wave of noise and boisterous goodwill. It was still strange to be living with so many other people again. ( _Other people_ , she self-questioned, as if Strucker and Hydra didn't count…? No, not for this, she decided.)

Down a few flights of stairs, the kitchen was as empty as the hallways had been. Wanda opened the door ahead of her before she reached it, then realized belatedly that if anyone _were_ in the kitchen, she had probably frightened them. But she didn't hear any exclamations or reactions, so she figured she was in the clear.

The last person in the kitchen had done a good job cleaning up before leaving, Wanda noted. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, probably. In the beginning the Avengers had tried doing their own housework and cooking (it built character and taught responsibility, said Captain Rogers; it kept you out of trouble when you weren't doing other things, said Romanov), but that hadn't lasted long. Too many uncooked meals and unscrubbed bathrooms had led them to take up Nick Fury's offer and become a vacation-and-light-duty spot for S.H.I.E.L.D. affiliates who could use a break and didn't mind some housekeeping.

Within a few minutes, it became apparent that unless she wanted old frozen toaster waffles or the last of a dubious box of cereal, she would have to do some cooking of her own. The choice was soon made, but it took her nearly ten minutes to find where the cookbooks were kept. Had the last S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had everything memorized?

It had been quite a while – quite a while – since she'd cooked anything, Wanda thought. Back in the old musty kitchen in Sokovia, with the crack in the ceiling and the chipped tiles where she'd dropped dishes as a little girl… But to think about the past was a sure way to make a good morning bad. Better to keep it behind the curtain in her mind, the one that she had been putting up thread by thread over the last weeks and months. Pretend by daylight that things had always been this way; and yet, oppositely, pretend that Pietro was only around the corner somewhere and would, certainly, presently appear…

She swallowed hard. Her mind-curtain wasn't finished yet. She'd have to keep working on it. Maybe it would take the rest of her life… However long _that_ was.

…Pancakes. She wanted to make pancakes for breakfast. Those were easy, weren't they?

She rubbed at her forehead to make the tight feeling go away – the part of her mind that still reached out, reached out expecting a touch, knowing now that nothing would meet it.

Quickly, she scanned the recipe and sat back on the stool she'd found. Fine tendrils of red began to wreath her fingers, and one of the high cabinets came open above her. Metal and plastic clunked awkwardly as she searched for a mixing bowl. They had to have mixing bowls here, didn't they?

It took longer, she felt, than it should have – finding everything. But then, perhaps that was because she'd perversely insisted on using her powers to search the cabinets, instead of getting up and digging through them herself. She'd accidentally knocked down a stack of canisters once already, startling herself with the crash.

Results, so far: one metal mixing bowl, a set of measuring cups, a jumble of spoons, plastic boxes of flour and sugar, several things that _might_ be salt, also something that she hoped was baking powder…

The knowledge of being watched came suddenly upon her, like a cold touch at the back of her neck, and she jerked upright, the glow flaring in small startled lightning from her fingers.

"Don't try that, Maximoff."

It was Natasha Romanov, leaning in the doorway: nonchalant and deadly-looking even in her black tank top and exercise clothes, her auburn hair in a soft messy fluff around her face and neck.

Wanda closed her fists and let the red not-flame fade.

"Good morning," she said, a little stiffly, since she hadn't been expecting company and Romanov was not what you would call warm and cheerful in any case.

Something – perhaps a desire to show off a little – prompted her to glare at the measuring cup and raise it into the air, then dip it into the flour. One cup, the recipe had said. Should she double it? Was Romanov expecting to stay for breakfast?

"I hadn't thought of cooking as a possible use for telekinesis," said Romanov mildly from the doorway.

The flour made a little white puff of cloud as she dropped it inexpertly, cup measure and all, into the mixing bowl.

"Oh, come on, you can do better than that."

Was this to be a test as well? Wanda bit her lip. "I haven't tried this before."

"Well, try it again."

All right, so she _was_ doubling the recipe.

This time she managed the little twist of the measuring cup so that the flour poured out. The sugar took longer because of the angle she had to get the tablespoon at. She was contemplating the baking powder when Romanov laughed shortly.

"I'm sorry. We did agree to give you guys three days off, didn't we?"

Wanda had to keep herself from flinching as Romanov, every inch the Black Widow even at nine-something on a vacation day morning, pulled up the next stool and sat down next to her at the kitchen table.

"I don't mind." That might have been a lie. But words – words weren't for you, sometimes; they were for the person next to you. To hide or reveal what you chose. And you never, _never_ told that you didn't want to be tested and tried anymore, that you wanted time to live without scrutiny and vigilance…

Romanov chuckled again. "Oh, you mind." Then, "I was going to get cereal, but do you think you'll have any of those pancakes left over?"

"Of course you can have some. I – I'm not going to eat them all myself." She used her hands, this time, to open the baking powder, but the teaspoon found its way over by other means. Eggs, oil, milk – thankfully the refrigerator was pretty hard to lose anything in – and Romanov actually went to the trouble of finding a griddle at the bottom of a cabinet. She handed it over to Wanda with the edge of a smile.

"I'm just earning my breakfast, remember."

Wanda nodded, tried on a smile in return. It must not have looked very convincing.

"Maximoff, I don't bite! Stop looking like that."

Romanov watched her pour the batter onto the griddle, as if it were an interesting sight. Of course, Wanda was using her powers to do it, with the same technique she'd learned for the flour. Maybe it _was_ an interesting sight.

"I had a friend once," said Romanov after a moment, "who could make perfectly round pancakes. Like the ones you see in commercials or movies. I don't know how she did it. It must be a gift. _Mine_ always… well."

Wanda tried, and failed, to imagine Romanov making pancakes. But as tiny bubbles came and went on the surface of the first batch, Romanov put out a hand for the spatula. "Can I try?"

Why not? Wanda wasn't quite sure she remembered how to flip pancakes herself.

The pancakes did not cooperate. Wanda was pretty sure she heard Romanov swear under her breath in another language. After the first three had landed with awkward batter trails on the griddle, she found the spatula pressed back into her hand.

"You'll do better than me, Maximoff. I'll come back when they're done – yeah? And I'll stop breathing down your neck, too."

The other three pancakes came more easily. Wanda settled back into the silence, Romanov's footsteps fading away up the staircase. _Breathing down your neck_ , well.

She was just putting the second griddle-full of six small pancakes (how many _did_ this recipe make?) onto a plate when she heard her second visitor coming. This one was more polite and actually greeted her instead of lurking wordless and startling her in the doorway:

"Good morning, Maximoff."

Part of her wished that they would call her by her name. Part of her – the part that had to do with reaching out for absence and memories – was glad that they didn't. Still, if she had to choose…

"Good morning, Captain Rogers."

He'd probably come looking for breakfast. Would there be enough? It was rude to not feed guests – even if you were in a kitchen that belonged to everyone as much as it belonged to anyone. Was this going to become an Avengers breakfast party?

Captain Steve Rogers had obviously not combed his hair that morning. It stuck up all over his head in tawny tufts, which he tried to flatten with his hand then, as if remembering. "Pancakes? That's a good idea. I was going to find what S.H.I.E.L.D. left us to eat."

"Toaster waffles," said Wanda. "The kind from the freezer." She didn't like them. They tasted like cardboard to her. She ate them anyway, though, when she had to. You didn't waste food just because you didn't like it… "And nasty cereal. So I made something."

He pulled a frown. "I like your initiative, Maximoff." Then, "May I?" – indicating the stool that Romanov had occupied (without asking) several minutes ago.

"Yes. And you can have pancakes – " hoping they wouldn't run out. "But Romanov wants some, too."

Captain Rogers didn't stay sitting, though. He went poking through the kitchen, talking over things, half to himself and half to her – "why do we have three colanders? What's this? I think it's a rice cooker. Maximoff, why do people need a special machine to cook rice for them? I always just used a saucepan. And when do we ever have rice anyway?"

She finished dealing out the third batch of pancake batter and critically eyed what remained in the mixing bowl. Half a batch more? Perhaps. Oh, Captain Rogers was talking… she'd better answer. Words were for the person next to you… "I don't know, sir."

Finally he sat back down again. "It's nice to have a kitchen, isn't it?"

"Yes. I like making things – cooking – I haven't done it for… a while."

Oh, so close to lifting the curtain. She had to be careful with this. The pancakes bubbled softly, the edges rising from the black iron griddle. Nearly time to flip them over.

"Do you mind if I say something personal, Maximoff?"

She looked up, spatula half under a pancake, and found Captain Rogers looking at her with something like sympathy in his eyes. She gave a small nod, not sure what else to do.

He redistributed his elbows on the counter and spoke again. "I know things have changed a lot for you, and now, being an Avenger suddenly… being stuck with all of us… Well, I hope you're happy here."

Happy?

Did it matter, whether she was or not? …What did _happy_ feel like? It was an arrogant sort of word, like icing on top of a cake, when you were used to eating bread and being grateful for it. Were people happy? How did you get happiness? And how in the world did you ever keep it?

Captain Rogers was still watching her, eyebrows drawn ever so slightly together.

Words were for the person next to you. _…But the person closest of all to you – he was inside your head already, and you didn't need words for him…_

Something made a new sizzling sound on the griddle. She blinked and realized that she was crying, then swiped her arm furiously and obviously across her eyes.

"Maximoff – Wanda – " Captain Rogers was fumbling for words behind her.

"I'm _happy,"_ she said, then swallowed hard, desperate not to cry – not here in the daytime, not with someone to see. "I think I'm happy. Does someone know if they're happy?" The words didn't seem to stop coming. "Are _you_ happy? When you were lost from your own time and place, taken, _gone_ , everyone _gone_ , then a new place, no one, nothing – build up everything from the ground, like the buildings after the bombs fall – _happy?"_

Silence. Gray empty silence, as if she were alone in the room again. What had she just said? She didn't dare turn around, though she could feel Captain Rogers's presence behind her. She didn't want to meet his eyes – or to let him meet hers… The curtain had been good and truly torn by now. Clumsily, she finished flipping over the pancakes, leaving batter trails almost as bad as Romanov's had been. The last few were a little burned.

"You're right," came Captain Rogers's voice. Quieter, now. "You're right. I shouldn't have said… Everything was changed, you know. Everyone dead. Or old, and they don't remember – or – "

She turned, then, at that odd unexpected catch in his voice.

"I do have one friend around from back then." Captain Rogers almost smiled, a twitch of his mouth, flippancy that didn't come near his eyes. "I just don't know where he is, now. He had… other circumstances… than mine."

This was a story she hadn't heard. She waited, not intending to ask, but a little curious.

It took a moment before Captain Rogers went on.

"Hydra got hold of him. They… did things to him."

"Oh." She hissed her breath in, a little, thinking, remembering. She had seen, had felt, some of what could happen when Hydra got hold of you; cruel the way that they used people, the willing and the unwilling, it was all the same to them. "I'm sorry."

For a long moment they did meet each other's eyes, and then Wanda remembered that she'd left the griddle on without any batter on it. It was starting to smoke a little.

"But – happy?" said Captain Rogers. "Maybe. Sometimes." He shrugged. "It does get better, Maximoff. I wouldn't have believed it if someone'd said that to _me_ then, but it does."

"Does it?" Her eyes were dry now, by main force and effort, and she was pouring out the last of the pancake batter.

"Yeah." He smiled, and this time it looked a bit more real. "Because – after a while, well, you get to build everything again. Like the buildings after the bombs fall."

Outside the window, the rain was slowing, water running silvery through the drainage ditch along the edge of the running track.

…Building everything again, Wanda thought. Was she part of that? Were all the Avengers, maybe? That you might always have the curtain across your mind, but on _this_ side of the curtain there was still so much to save, so much to help.

So much to build…

The voice from the doorway startled her out of her thoughts and brought her to attention. "Those pancakes ready yet, Maximoff?"

So somehow at ten o'clock in the morning or so Wanda and Romanov and Captain Rogers were all sitting around the kitchen table eating pancakes with the help of butter and syrup scavenged from the refrigerator. Romanov and Captain Rogers kept the conversation going, mostly.

"Remember how we had to put names on all our leftovers in Stark Tower, Nat? Or Tony would eat it and say sorry later."

Romanov laughed. "I seem to remember an incident with you and Barton's chocolate chip cookies."

"But he left them in the middle of the table with the plastic stuff taken off them. What was I supposed to think?"

…Closing her eyes she could almost hear another voice in the banter, another laugh along with the laughter. But that wasn't wrong to think of. Like the red glow along her fingers, like the fears and thoughts and habits that lingered years and miles later – she kept trying to put things back behind the curtain. But so many of the things that made up Wanda Maximoff, they had come from those times and places. To deny them was to deny herself…

Maybe it was _because_ of those things, that you decided to build again, instead of just sitting in the wreckage.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, coming downwards. Wilson, maybe, or Rhodey. Vision was quieter on staircases, and he didn't run…

She glanced across the room and casually sailed a cupful of flour over Romanov's head, to dump into the mixing bowl. At this rate, she might as well put together another batch.


End file.
